


God Makes No Mistakes

by ArtemisBlythe



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Angst, Hurt, M/M, Priest!Kurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisBlythe/pseuds/ArtemisBlythe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt's life had changed so much since that sunny afternoon on the riverbank. Every day he tried to convince himself that his calling was true. He was making a fairly good job of it until that knock on the door...</p>
            </blockquote>





	God Makes No Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so this one came from that ep with that crazy white-collar-black-top outfit. Tumblr pointed out, quite rightly that it made Kurt look like a priest. I set it in England, in a Catholic church & presbytery that I know quite well. There was meant to be more and it was gonna get all smutty and unsuitable but that never seemed to happen. So I left it as its bittersweet little self.
> 
> And by the way: don't people on this site comment much? Lots of you have read it, SAY SOMETHING!!!

Father David checked the clock on the mantel. Five to ten. He closed the book he’d been studying, without really thinking about it, sending up a brief prayer of thanks for the wisdom it contained as he reshelved it above the desk. He switched off the desk lamp as he rose and picked up the remote control for the television from the coffee table. Switching the set on, he caught the closing bars of the theme tune of a popular series and then the announcer’s link to the evening news. Settling in his easy chair, he prepared himself for the onslaught of headlines.

Sure enough, the world was still as dysfunctional as ever. Wars and violence and hate causing yet more wars and violence and hatred. If any of it ever had a positive outcome, he might understand why the human race persisted in believing that fighting was the answer. Self-proclaimed Christians killing in the name of their loving God; killing those of differing beliefs and killing their brothers...

Father David sighed. It was a nightly ritual, one he allowed himself as a safety valve to ensure he was once again in a balanced frame of mind in time for bed. If he wasn’t at one with the world again by the time his head hit the pillow, he would sleep ill and be out of sorts for early Mass. He couldn’t allow that to happen. In this world of hopeless lack of faith, the people had to have someone who stood as an example of the pure love of their Lord.

His attention returned to the screen. Scenes of jubilation in New York as the city celebrated... what? Some new law? He tuned into the commentary and caught on as a close up of two elderly women kissing filled the screen. Ah, gay marriage had been enshrined in law. His heart leapt momentarily as he watched a line of couples queueing outside some official building. Handsome young men in suits, women in frothy wedding dresses with dinner-suited partners, drag queens in full regalia and older couples celebrating just as they were, in jeans and sweatpants, vintage dresses and twin sets. He allowed his whole being to fill up with joy and longing, telling himself it was events like this which were his Lord’s love made manifest. Forget those who interpreted the scriptures to mean that same sex love was wrong. Love was what Christ taught, just love. For everyone, for all of humanity. Sex was part of that. Why did the good Lord give us the capacity for the sheer enjoyment of the act of procreation if he hadn’t thought we would practice it at every available opportunity and with whichever gender felt the best?

He was just blowing off steam. Just allowing these thoughts to swim to the surface and burst like bubbles to get them out of his system so that tomorrow he could continue to answer the difficult questions with a well-practiced ‘The Bible teaches us that...’

Except he couldn’t stop the image that slammed into his brain of Paul’s beloved face in close up, the sense-memory of breath on his cheek, soft lips meeting his own and his heart constricting and then opening like a flower as the boy murmured his name:

‘Oh, Kurt...’

Father David shook the memory away. That was a long time ago, an awfully long time, a whole lifetime, in fact. He’d come so far since that afternoon on the riverbank.  
He never allowed himself to think of it, or of the weeks that ensued, filled with joy and love and exploration. He did allow himself to think of the discovery, however. The tearing asunder, the blame, recrimination, anger, hurt. The confessions, ‘re-educations’, eventual contrition or something of its kind and the years of suppression of any kind of love or feelings except those towards Christ...

It hadn’t been easy. He firmly believed that God handed humans challenges to test their devotion. It was another of those. He had fallen several times along his path. Seminary had been easy to begin with, his youth and utter belief in his vocation had carried him through seven long years. That and a sheer love of learning, of practising new skills and beliefs. 

And the singing.

Being a part of the choir and delivering sung Mass was his joy, his release. His unusual counter-tenor always had choir masters and congregations looking up in interest. In an exclusively male-voiced environment, he offered a lighter tone and more than doubled the repertoire of the seminary choir.

Only after he had been called to take Holy Orders and commenced his deaconship and sacrificed his given name for a more fitting saint’s name in recognition that his past was a closed chapter, had the problems begun.

The constant self-doubt and questioning was what he allowed others to see. He was reassured that it was the mark of a true Father to be able to humble oneself utterly, to be stripped right down in order that faith could rebuild a stronger, more godly man. After all, hadn’t Christ himself faced his demons, real and imagined, in the wilderness?

But he’d succumbed to temptation.

It wasn’t unusual for those in orders to enjoy a tipple. God knew there were few enough mortal pleasures allowed to His chosen ministers. But he had so much to drown that he had gone that bit too far. It had delayed his ordination by at least a year and had ensured that although deemed fit for the priesthood, he was destined to be a ‘caretaker’ for parishes experiencing an interregnum between permanent priests.

Thus his current situation.

He finished watching the weather forecast and turned the sound low whilst he moved to the small kitchen of the presbytery. Mrs O’Leary had left it spotless as she always did, placing the mugs open side up in the cupboard. Father David put the kettle on to boil as he inverted all the mugs. She would take no hint. Every parish had its share of ‘ladies’ (heaven forfend that one call them ‘women’) who deemed it their role to ‘do’ for the priest. As if it would give them a few more heavenly Brownie points if they washed his mugs or brought him a covered plate for supper or left a casserole, still warm, in the oven for lunch between Masses on Sunday.

Reflectively mixing instant hot chocolate with the boiled water, he felt rebellious. Mrs O’Leary insisted on cocoa, made on a stove top with milk. He had to keep the low-fat instant stuff hidden behind the boiler where he knew she wouldn’t find it. Two full jars had mysteriously disappeared from the cupboard already.

As he blew the steam off the drink and leaned on the grotesque 70’s counter in the grotesque 70’s kitchen in the grotesque 70’s house, he thought he heard a noise outside. He placed the mug down behind him and turned to the window. Twitching back the brown and yellow flowered curtain he peered out. The presbytery garden, such as it was, bordered the churchyard of St Peter’s and it wasn’t unusual for drunken groups to cut through on their way back from the pub on the main road. By the light above the church porch he could see nothing and all seemed quiet again. 

Father David returned to his hot chocolate.

Again a noise. Definitely from the churchyard this time, what might have been a voice or a cry and then quiet. It could just have easily been a fox or cats fighting. He resolved to don his winter coat and investigate once he had finished his drink. There wasn’t enough commotion for it to be a concern.

The television was still burbling softly in the living room. The heightened emotions of earlier had evaporated, as he knew they would, and he had now reached the bland calm which characterised his usual state of mind. In his thirty-one years he had learned that it didn’t do well to think about anything too deeply. Faith was mostly based on blind acceptance and an awful lot of sweeping under the carpet.

Living and believing in the moment meant he didn’t have to remember the past and didn’t have to consider the future. The simple fact of the sweetness of his drink, the warmth of the house and the imminent oblivion of sleep was enough for now.

Except he felt he should go and investigate the noise.

Father David was just rinsing his mug in the sink when there came a knock at the front door. Not an ordinary knock, as if someone was paying a visit. Not even a hurried contemptuous knock as of someone playing a prank and running away, but a ragged, uneven type of knock. Continuous for several unevenly-spaced beats and then followed by a sort of scraping. 

Then a thud against the door. 

Father David sent up a quick request for strength and guidance. Laced possibly with an undertone of ‘Please don’t let it be a firebomb though the letterbox’ and squared his shoulders as he entered the hall. Nothing had come though the letterbox. That was something to be grateful for.

Carefully putting on the safety chain, he turned the key in the bottom lock and released the catch with his other hand. Cautiously he cracked the door open and peered through the gap. 

Nothing there.

In the same moment, he heard a soft groan and looked down. Leaning against the door was a figure... a boy? It was hard to tell. The dark, curly head was resting against the door and the crumpled body and limbs trailed off the doorstep and onto the concrete path. He noticed in his limited line of sight that there was a smear of blood leading from partway up the door to where the head now rested. In immediate panic, he closed the door to release the chain and very slowly pulled the door more open. As he did so, the figure seemed to revive slightly and a bloodied face looked up at him unsteadily.

‘Father? You’re not... you’re not Father Pat...’ the figure said and the eyes closed for a long moment.

‘No, I’m Father David. Father Pat left almost a year ago. What’s happened to you, child? Can you stand up?’ He leaned down to help the figure up and over the threshold. It appeared to be a young boy, maybe in his teens, not too tall and in a pretty bad way by the look of him. Kicking the door shut behind him, Father David clumsily manoeuvred the boy into the living room and settled him in one of the easy chairs.

Taking a close look at the boy’s face, he knelt beside him, wondering if he should just call an ambulance right away.

‘What’s your name? I’m going to get something to clean you up with, OK?’

‘B-Blaine. Blaine Anderson. Where’s Father Pat? Father Pat used to live here...’ the brown eyes looked glassily up at him again, one showing signs of swelling and bruising on the side of the nose.

‘I’m the priest here now. Father Pat retired a while ago. Did you go to St Peter’s?’

‘Went to the school. And the church. Not anymore.’ Blaine didn’t seem certain of what he was saying, he appeared confused. Father David placed a hand on his knee.

‘Blaine, I’m just going into the kitchen to get some towels and warm water to clean you up a bit. Stay right here, I’ll be back in a minute.’

As quickly as he could, he grabbed a handful of neatly pressed tea towels from the drawer (why did the ladies seem to think it necessary to iron the tea towels?) and poured the remains of the hot water from the kettle into a plastic mixing jug from the drainer. He carried these back into the living room and set about wetting a corner of one towel.

‘Blaine, what happened to you? Did someone attack you?’ he began as he gingerly dabbed at the split and swollen lip and wiped blood from Blaine’s nose.

‘Buncha guys beat me up. In the churchyard. Was coming back from the bus.’ Blaine shifted uneasily in the chair, he seemed to be having difficulty catching his breath.

‘Did they hurt you anywhere else? Where does it hurt?’ 

Blaine moaned softly, his breath bubbling through the blood from his nose.

‘Kicked me. In the stomach, and here and...’ he tried to point to his left side, his belly and lower...

‘I’m going to call an ambulance, I think you need a doctor to take a look at you.’ Father David said gently.

Blaine’s eyes opened wide as his body went rigid with panic.

‘No. Can’t do that. Please...no...’ his breath ran out but it was plain that he was terrified of something other than his attackers.

‘Why not, Blaine? You’ve been beaten up pretty badly, you might have broken ribs or something. I really think we should get you looked at.’

‘No. Just bruised. Not as bad as last time.’ Blaine responded.

‘Last time? Has this happened to you before?’ Father David’s brow furrowed in concern and he searched the bruised face for clues.

Blaine gave what might have been an ironic laugh in between the swipes of the towel.

‘Yeah, a few times.’

Father David was pushing aside the boy’s coat to wipe the blood that had trickled down Blaine’s chin. He wore only a tee shirt despite the cold weather and even that had a neckline so wide that it was slipping away from his shoulder under the coat.

‘Where had you been this evening, Blaine? Did you know the people who attacked you?’ Father David figured it was best to keep the boy talking and maybe win his trust enough to allow a visit to Accident and Emergency.

‘In town, clubbing.’ Blaine replied shortly.

Father David suppressed a frown. ‘How old are you, Blaine?’

‘Twenty-two. Why?’ the boy looked up at him warily, his left eye almost swollen shut now.

‘You look a lot younger. You seemed a little young to be out on the town alone, that’s all.’

Blaine snorted contemptuously and snatched the towel out of Father David’s hand.

‘That’s why I go out on the town. They like that I look so young.’ He winced again in pain and held the towel to his own nose now. The bleeding had almost stopped.  
Father David let that go for the time being. He was beginning to build up a picture. The revealing shirt, the youthful looks, the seeming resignation to repeated attacks.

This could get awkward.

‘Blaine, I need to let someone know you’re here. Is there anyone I can call? Parents? A friend?’

Again the look of contempt.

‘No. I’ll be fine. Can I have a drink of water?’

‘Yes. But seriously, I have to tell someone, you should be checked out and I have a duty to tell somebody what has happened, how you came to be here...’

Blaine’s expression softened.

‘Oh, I get it. Can’t be alone with a pretty boy, huh? Cause every priest molests pretty boys, right?’

Father David was shocked by his forthrightness. He started to compose a sidestepping reply but decided against it.

‘I have to ensure we are both protected, yes.’

As the he uttered the phrase, he realised its implications. Blaine was even quicker.

‘Oh, I do need to be protected from you, then?’ his swollen lip curled into a lopsided grin, making what must have been a usually attractive face look strangely hideous, with the black eye and crooked nose.

‘Blaine, please. I’m concerned for your welfare. I think you should see a doctor.’

‘I’m not going to hospital.’ Blaine said flatly.

‘Why not?’

‘They’re too fucking nosey there... Oh, sorry Father.’ Old habits apparently died hard.

‘What d’you mean, Blaine?’

‘They ask too many questions. They wanna know what I’ve been doing, who hit me, wanna report it to the police. They told my dad once and he hit me worse when I got home.’ Blaine shifted again in the chair, seeming to be in a little less pain, breathing more easily.

Father David rose to his feet. 

‘How about I get you that drink of water and you tell me a little bit about it?’

‘Yeah. Maybe. Look, sorry I came here and disturbed you and all, I thought it’d be Father Pat. He was here last time. He understood.’

‘I think I understand, too. Let me get you that drink.’

As he fetched a glass down from the cupboard and filled it from the cold tap, his mind span. The boy really ought to be checked out medically but he seemed to know whether his injuries were bad or not. Chances were, if this wasn’t the first time, he had quite a scale of seriousness with which to compare. Besides, he seemed lucid now and once the bleeding had stopped, he didn’t look too bad. Just a bit knocked about. Father David felt his emotional hurt was more serious and that was something he was qualified to address. He felt that perhaps Blaine had been led to knock on the presbytery door. God had a reason for everything, even bloodied boys appearing on his doorstep. There were no accidents. It was simply a question of seeking guidance as to what was required to resolve the situation. He had to tread exceptionally carefully though, especially as Blaine seemed to have worldly wisdom beyond his years. With his own past history, however long ago, he must be cautious. As he passed the ancient dial telephone on the wall, he had an idea.

‘Here’s your water.’ Father David handed the glass to Blaine, who thanked him and drank half of it in a single gulp.

‘Hate the taste of blood.’ He commented drily.

‘Blaine, I still think we should get someone to take a look at you, just to be sure your injuries aren’t worse than you think. I know someone who’s a qualified nurse, she won’t report anything if you don’t want her to. She’d come over here to see you. I’d just feel happier if you were checked out and if someone knew you were here.’ 

‘I’m not a kid, Father. I’m not gonna accuse you of anything.’

‘That’s not quite what I meant. I really think...’

‘Ok, Ok. Whatever you want. But no reporting. I just wanna get going then.’ Blaine seemed suddenly impatient.

‘Alright. I’ll give her a ring.’ Father David returned to the telephone and dialled Sister Veronica’s number. She took a while to answer. Probably watching DVDs with the other sisters in their cosy communal living room.

‘Veronica? It’s Kurt.’ They’d known each other since high school, there was absolutely no point in pretending they didn’t have a long history before recognising their respective vocations.

She greeted him effusively. He’d always envied her ability to retain her essential character despite her lifestyle. He himself felt that he’d had to entirely reinvent himself when he took to the cloth.

He briefly explained the evening’s events and his concerns and she caught on immediately.

‘Sure! I’ll be round in fifteen. Put the kettle on. And none of that milky cocoa rubbish!’ She bellowed down the phone. 

He smiled. Their history really did go quite deep.

Returning to the living room, he saw that Blaine had finished his water and was cradling the empty glass in his grazed hands.

‘I’ll take that.’ Father David said, holding out his hand. ‘My friend Veronica’s on her way to check you out.’ 

He placed the glass on the ugly veneered sideboard, casting a brief glance at the statue of Our Lady serenely presiding over the room. Picking up the remote control from the coffee table, he switched off the television and turned back to the boy.

‘So you were at school here?’ he began, conversationally.

‘Yeah, long time ago. I was an altar boy for a bit after that.’ Blaine was giving basic facts only.

‘What happened?’ 

Father David sat himself down. A lot could be discovered in fifteen minutes if you knew what you were doing.

‘I’m not coming back to the church, if that’s what you’re angling for. Let’s get that clear right from the start.’ Blaine was defensive, angry almost.

‘I was just making conversation.’ Father David replied calmly.

‘Yeah, well. Your church doesn’t approve of me. I’m damned as far as you lot are concerned. I only knocked on your door because I thought Father Pat was here. He’s the only one who didn’t judge me, didn’t give me chapter and verse about how I could resist it and how if I prayed hard enough I could change. They even suggested joining the fucking priesthood would knock it out of me!’ He cast a faintly apologetic look at the priest. ‘Sorry. Again.’

‘It’s OK.’ A beat. ‘What did they want to knock out of you?’ 

He had to ask although the answer was glaringly apparent to him. The story sounded eerily familiar, his earlier suspicions all but confirmed.

‘I’m gay. They wanted to knock out that fucking queer and immoral tendency to want to kiss guys and sleep with guys and...’ he broke off, suddenly aware that his anger wasn’t really directed at this stranger, this Father whose name he couldn’t even remember. He’d been kind, looked after him, he didn’t deserve this. But then he might... Blaine was suddenly panicked. What if the priest wasn’t as accepting as Father Pat had been?  
Father David gazed at Blaine with what he hoped came across as compassion. The boy was understandably angry, resentful towards the church, fundamentally mistrustful of its clergy.

‘Go on.’ Was all he said.

‘So I...’ Blaine stopped. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, I don’t even remember your name, Father.’

‘Kurt’ he said without thinking. ‘I-I mean, it’s Father David. My nurse friend calls me by my given name, the one who’s coming over shortly...’ It was a terrible recovery but he thought he’d managed it.

‘D’you mind if I call you Kurt? I’d rather that than Father. After all, I’m not a part of the church that calls you Father.’ Blaine fixed him with the one eye that remained open. 

‘Well, it’s not usually done, but OK. Seeing as the slip was mine.’ Kurt felt his stomach clench in what he thought was discomfort at having someone outside of his closest circle use his name.

‘So yeah, there I was with the whole kissing boys thing. Only I wasn’t just doing that. I was kind of an explorer. I like to do what gives me a kick. I don’t really care what anyone else thinks. It’s why my dad used to hit me. He always said I had a smart mouth and loose belt...’ Blaine snuffled with laughter.

‘So I left the church and I left home and I got money however I could and I answered everyone back which is why they’re always beating me up and I don’t want anyone to help me cause I’m doing just fine. No social workers or counsellors or doctors or anyone. I know what I’m doing, I know the risks and I’m good with that.’ He finished defiantly, his sore hands clenched into fists on his knees, the knuckles white.

‘OK.’ Kurt replied, raising his hands, palms towards Blaine.

‘But thank you for looking after me... I didn’t mean to be ungrateful...’ Blaine added hurriedly. ‘I just don’t want to change. I’m happy being me.’

Kurt continued to look calmly at him.

‘OK.’ He said again.

‘Happy’ was not a word which he would have immediately applied to Blaine. 

‘Troubled’: yes. ‘Terrified’: probably. ‘Desperately wanting to be loved’: absolutely.

His heart went out to the boy in a way that it rarely did to anyone. He tried to keep focussed on the fact that his Lord had all the love this boy needed. He himself was living proof of that. God could fill any void, whatever it was caused by, however it manifested. You just needed to find the route in. 

Kurt found himself struggling to find the route in. 

He suddenly wanted to tell Blaine that he was right, that being himself, just as he was created, was fine. Pursuing his desires and finding a kind of joy in them was a celebration of how he had been made, how he had been made by God! 

He was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of emotion, of doubt, of memory, of resentment. It stuck in the back of his throat in a lump, threatening to become a strangled sob.

Thankfully at that moment, Sister Veronica rapped loudly on the door.

Kurt stood up and spun out into the hallway, swiping a hand across his face as he went.

Veronica greeted him with a kiss on each cheek and shrugged off her navy wool coat, hanging it over one arm. She was dressed in a rather dull pale blue sweater and navy skirt with a scarf over her head. A tiny silver pin fastened to her bosom was the only clue to her chosen religious life.

‘Now, where’s this young man, then?’ she spoke and moved briskly; ten years of working in a busy city hospital meant that she took no nonsense from anyone.

Kurt led the way. ‘Blaine, this is Sister Veronica. Will you let her have a little look at your injuries, make sure you’re OK?’

Blaine looked up, his face seeming even more swollen and battered than a few minutes ago.

‘Yeah, sure. Hi, Sister. I’m OK though, really.’ He nodded at Veronica, looking slightly apprehensive. He was just going to have to go with this one. It was quite some time since he’d let a woman anywhere near him.

‘Father David, why don’t you go and pop the kettle on? I’m sure Blaine and I could really use a nice cuppa.’ Veronica artfully gave Kurt an option to remove himself.

Kurt nodded and left the room just as Veronica was asking Blaine if he was able to stand up. He decided to stay in the kitchen while the kettle boiled, let Veronica do her examination in peace and quiet. As he squeezed the teabags and stirred the two mugs, he realised that he hadn’t asked Blaine if he wanted sugar so he headed back towards the door of the living room. As he approached, he could see that Blaine had taken his coat and shirt off whilst Veronica looked at the bruising all down his left side. Kurt paused, unsure of what to do. As he havered, he looked. Aside from the darkening marks down one side, the body was perfect. Slim and smooth, very slightly muscled and with hardly a freckle or a mark to be seen. He noted a tattoo on the right shoulder blade, a pair of comedy and tragedy masks wrapped around with a ribbon of musical stave. Kurt idly wondered whether the notes on the stave were from a particular piece of music as his eyes slid down to the waistband of Blaine’s jeans...

What was he doing?

Leaving the sugar question unasked, Kurt returned to the kitchen, hastily tipping sugar into a small bowl and jamming a teaspoon into it before putting the mugs and the bowl onto a round tray. He announced: ‘Tea’s up!’ as he once again crossed the hall, noticing with alarm how high and breathy his voice seemed to have gone all of a sudden.

Blaine was awkwardly putting his tee shirt back on as Kurt re-entered the room.

‘How is he?’ Kurt asked Veronica as he placed the tray on the coffee table with alarmingly trembling hands. He perched himself on the edge of the small sofa as Veronica reached for her tea and plumped down in the other easy chair.

‘He’s not too bad. I don’t think any ribs are broken and the nose isn’t as bad as it looks, just swollen. Nothing permanent, I’d say.’ She sipped at her tea and watched Blaine over the edge of the mug.

Kurt studiously avoided looking at him. The brief glimpse he’d caught of that low neck, the almost transparent fabric revealing what must be pierced nipples beneath had caused his heart to race in an unfamiliar way. An entirely inappropriate way. The sooner the boy felt ready to be on his way, the better. He almost regretted making him a cup of tea.

‘I think you need to get yourself some self-defence classes though, Blaine.’ Veronica was grinning. ‘Can’t be letting this happen to you all the time and if you won’t let the police do anything to help...’

Blaine grimaced. 

‘I’m a pretty good fighter, I just can’t take on more than about three people.’

‘How many were there?’ Veronica asked.

‘Dunno. ‘Bout six.’ He painfully slurped his tea, using his hand to help his bottom lip make a seal that wouldn’t dribble.

Kurt finally ventured a look at him. Thick curls broken free from their styling, heavy dark brows and liquid eyes. At least he seemed to recall they were both a deep molten-chocolate brown, before one swelled up and vanished and before he found himself utterly incapable of meeting Blaine’s gaze...He managed to look up as far as the lips, swollen now but doubtless bee-stung and sulkily sensual at the best of times.

Kurt tore his eyes away and placed his hands resolutely on his knees. He methodically thanked the Lord for not making Blaine’s injuries any worse than they were, thanked Him for the inspiration of that call to Veronica and asked in desperate silence for everyone to just please leave now.

Veronica finished off her tea and placed the mug back on the tray.

‘I needed that, thank you, Father. Now, Blaine, can I give you a lift home? It’s late, I’m sure someone will be wondering where you are.’

‘I live on my own, no one will be wondering. But a lift’d be great, thanks.’ He began slowly attempting to put his coat back on, hampered by his bruised and painful ribcage. Veronica rose instantly to help him.

‘There. We good to go? I’m parked just in the drive here, not far to walk.’ She began to shrug on her own coat and turned to Kurt.

‘Goodnight, Father. I hope you sleep well. God bless.’ She kissed him on both cheeks and headed for the door.

Blaine slowly followed her, patting his pockets as he went. 

‘Did you lose something?’ Kurt asked, noticing the gesture.

‘Yeah, I must have dropped my phone.’ Blaine sounded weary, resigned.

‘I’ll go and have a look for it. Where were you when...?’ he broke off as Blaine turned back to him.

‘In the churchyard. By the bench.’

Kurt knew exactly where he meant.

Blaine remained facing him in the doorway.

‘Thank you, Kurt. I’m glad I knocked on the door. I appreciate your help. And thanks for the tea.’ He held out his hand to Kurt.

Kurt took the hand and tentatively shook it. It was cool and he could feel the bones beneath the pressure of his thumb. Something indescribable shot up his arm and he broke the contact as soon as he could.

‘Take care, Blaine. Stay on the well-lit roads. God bless you.’

‘I don’t believe in God any more, I’m afraid.’

‘That doesn’t matter, He believes in you.’

‘Bye... Father.’

‘Goodnight, Blaine.’

Kurt watched Blaine painfully manoeuvre into Veronica’s little blue Fiat, waved once and thankfully shut the front door, locking it and putting on the chain. Then he switched off all the lights and mounted the stairs to bed, feeling anything but sleepy.


End file.
